


Building Fires

by Actually_Felicity_Smoak



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Mild Suicidal Ideation, Song fic, character deaths referenced, wicked-angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6684508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actually_Felicity_Smoak/pseuds/Actually_Felicity_Smoak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fics from Arrow Seasons 1-3 (characters introduced in season 4) built around Michael Longcor's song Building Fires (<a href="https://youtu.be/A8nON-_5rck">https://youtu.be/A8nON-_5rck</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Building Fires

_The world blunders on like a lost carousel_  
_torn from its moorings and run by a mad philosopher_  
_A mean morning after from a party that we never saw_  
_The old men of power keep searching for demons:_  
_they never see the ones peering back out from their mirrors,_  
_'cuz ethical conduct has nothing to do with the law._  


**May, 2013**

Tommy Merlyn should have been more surprised to learn what his father had been doing in the Glades. He should have been, but he wasn't. In fact, the longer he stood, the more surprised he was that the hadn't figured it out before now. 

Tommy couldn't say, truly, whether his father had always been vindictive. Had been angry. Had been manipulative. Had been determined, at all costs, to avoid accepting blame for anything. All he could say for certain was that he had been for as long as Tommy could remember. Ever since Mom had died. 

Ever since Mom had died, Tommy had done nothing right. His father had scolded him so frequently that Tommy answered to "disappointment" as readily as he did to his name. 

Mom had died, trying to bring life to the Glades. Two weeks ago, his father had nearly died in his attempt to bring death; would have died, if the Arrow -- if Oliver -- had been just a bit more callous. 

Now, listening to his mother's voice -- for 19 years he'd wished he could hear his mother's voice again, and now all he wanted to do was shut it off -- he realized he was always, could not have avoid being, a disappointment. The only question was, would he disappoint his father, or his mother?

Lauren would be in the Glades. Fighting for them. Fighting for life. Tommy turned his back on his father, headed towards the streets where his mother had last stood. For once in his life, Tommy would be on the correct side. 

_Building fires against the storm_  
_Huddled together, we try to keep warm._  
_Ragged and savage, afraid and forlorn;_  
_Building fires against the storm_  


**May, 2013**

Sebastian Blood could still feel the tears, pressing up behind his eyelids, nearly all the time. 

He never wept. He'd learned that early; you don't show that kind of weakness to the monster. He wasn't entirely certain he actually could cry, any more. But the tears were there, nonetheless. Only two things could make them go away: alcohol, and anger. And Sebastian refused to drink. 

It was worst when he felt helpless. That had been the worst of it, in his childhood. It wasn't the bruises. It wasn't the hunger. It wasn't even the fear of death, when his father had been on a true rampage. Out of all of it, the worst was the knowledge that there was _nothing he could do to stop it_. 

Even now, twenty years later, helplessness could take him right back to the worst moments of his childhood. He could feel his shoulders hunch in; he could feel his heart constrict, even as it raced faster. He could feel his breathing get faster, shallower. He could feel the tears get stronger. 

He felt like that now. He stood with his back to the hospital wall, staring out over the streets of the Glades, at a scene that the tears couldn't quite blur into meaninglessness. 

Never mind the people who had died in the earthquake, as rifts opened beneath them and buildings toppled over above them. Horrific as it was, that was just the beginning. Sebastian had studied theology; he had studied history. Those who died in battle were lucky; the survivors would face plague, starvation, looting, pillaging. Modern technology was no match for ancient wounds deep in the human soul. 

Especially since Sebastian knew what would happen, in the next few months. There would be no assistance; there would be no modern technology. Starling City's wealthy, despite having caused all this horror, would pay no price for it. The blood, and sweat, and tears, and vomit would all be paid in the Glades, by the city's poorest. Police would do nothing except ensure that the chaos remained in its "proper" place. 

Now anger came, and Sebastian welcomed it. He was not helpless, and he would not allow this city to die! He pushed himself off the wall, plans already forming in his mind. It would take organization. They could create their own security force, to stop the looting. They could create their own government, to distribute resources fairly. It would take work. It would take time. But most of all, it would take someone who could reach the hearts and minds of the Glades, and persuade them to stand as one. 

Whatever it took, Sebastian Blood would do. And if there was any -- _any_ \-- way to make those onepercenter bastards pay, Sebastian Blood would do that, too. 

_The rich getting filthy, the rest getting poorer_  
_we're working too hard and there's always just less you can show for it._  
_You can't ransom anger by paying the minimum wage._  
_The melting pot's cracking, and sooner or later_  
_we'll have to give up, and let go, and just finally go for it._  
_Prison's no threat when you already live in a cage._  


**October, 2013**

Roy Harper had given up long ago on trying to be good. There had been too much against him, for too long. He'd never studied philosophy; never heard John Calvin's precepts of predestination, that free will had no power against the decisions of God. But he would have recognized them, instantly, if he ran across them. 

What else was he to conclude? It was wrong for him to fight, but if he didn't fight, he got beat up. If he went to school, he couldn't work; if he didn't go to school, it was his own fault that he couldn't get a good job. With all the unskilled jobs full, he couldn't earn money honestly; if he stole, he deserved what he got for being a criminal. The world gave him nothing but impossible choices, then condemned him for the choices he made. So be it, then; Roy Harper would use his sin to make the world less hellish for those around him. 

What did he have to lose? He was already trapped: by his poverty, by his lack of education, by his criminal record. There was no escape except prison or death. All he could hope to do was serve as a stepping-stone for those behind him who might yet escape the pit.

_Building fires against the dark_  
_aiming and trying, and missing the mark._  
_Running from tigers and swimming with sharks;_  
_Building fires against the dark_  


**April, 2014**

Oliver was scared. And angry. And sad. 

But most of all, tired.

In a mere 22 hours, he had lost the company, his fortune, his team, and his sister. Lance had been arrested, and was awaiting trial, for having dared to trust Oliver's word. Roy had left, and Oliver couldn't blame him; he'd failed Roy as thoroughly as he'd failed anyone. With control of Queen Consolidated's Applied Science lab, Slade could now create as much Mirakuru as he wanted. And Thea...

All he'd wanted to do was help. He never really imagined that he, alone, could save the city ― he could still hear Digg's sardonic voice: "The white knight, swooping in to save the disenfranchised... And all by his lonesome, with no help from anybody" ― but he'd thought he could make a difference. Make it better, even if he couldn't fix everything. He'd dared to dream, when John and Felicity had come to find him on Lian Yu, that he could have a net positive effect on the world.

Instead he'd brought death, and ruin, and heartbreak. Oliver shook his head. Slade had won. And maybe it was better this way. Soon, he wouldn't be able to fail any more...

_Fate is worse than unkind: it's uncaring._  
_Luck in the battle's the best luck of all._  
_And the timid die, just like the daring._  
_If you don't take the plunge, then you'll just take the fall_  


**May, 2014**

Ray Palmer had always imagined that he was a sort of diamond in the rough. Sure, he'd never actually done anything heroic, but that was due to circumstances. No wizard had ever shown up at his door to announce his acceptance to Hogwarts; no old man in robes had ever shoved him into a battle with only a few days' training with a lightsaber. But he'd always imagined that -- like Luke, like Frodo -- when the crunch arrived, Ray Palmer would be shown to be a stupendous badass. 

What he'd never imagined was terrorists who could throw motorcycles; who could move so fast they could barely be seen. Never imagined a sword -- an honest-to-God sword -- slicing through Anna's neck before Ray had even registered what was happening. Never imagined his fiancee bleeding out in the street, too fast for even Eagle Scout first aid training to stop. 

For the first few weeks, all he could do was sit on his bed, and stare at the wall. 

It wasn't supposed to go like that. Sure, life was dangerous for the heroes; for Kirk, for Mal; even for "The Arrow" and "The Flash". But Ray didn't fool around with that stuff. He confined his heroics to the RPG table, and the monsters, in turn, were supposed to stay away from him. That was the rule; that was the deal. 

He'd never thought of himself as a coward. But the more he looked at it, the more he realized that's _exactly_ what he was. A coward and a fraud. Sure, he'd fight beholders or necrons, and imagine himself strong and courageous in the doing. But would he, could he, fight the actual, honest-to-God monsters? The ones that appeared, in real life, to pillage and murder real people? And if not, then what, really was his life for?

"The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly..." Ray had memorized the speech in high school; fell in love with it as the teacher read it aloud. But he had never -- not once -- actually entered the arena. He had held back, kept himself safe -- or so he thought. 

Now, in return for his cowardice, Anna was dead, and Ray was among those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Ray clenched his teeth, and sobbed, and swore that from here on out, whatever else, he would at least fail while daring greatly. 

_The spiral gets tighter, the curve goes to redline_  
_The rough beast still slouches and grumbles its way through the city._  
_It's infotainment each night on the national news._  
_The shotguns are loaded. The squad cars are screaming._  
_The night is too hot, life is short, and your eyes feel so gritty._  
_If it's sport or mob violence depends on your own point of view._  


**April, 2015**

Lyla Michaels had joined the military, she always said, for the great health and dental benefits. 

The real reasons were too complicated to go into at a bar or a party or a church ice-cream social. Especially with those people who paused, and blinked, and clearly didn't know what to say to a woman soldier. 

The truth was, she was very, _very_ good at this job. True, she couldn't match most of the men in hand-to-hand combat or push-up competitions. But modern warfare made those concerns surprisingly irrelevant. Lyla was smart, with quick reactions, and a good mind for both tactics and strategy. She was calm in a crisis, and could keep track of dozens of moving pieces without losing track of any important considerations. 

And she was ruthless enough to do what needed to be done. 

All of those qualities propelled her up the military ranks. But it was that last one that had gotten her tapped for ARGUS. And Lyla had joined, happily, eagerly. 

The military was fine, for its purpose. But Lyla had seen enough to know that by the time the military got there, it was too late, for a lot of people. ARGUS gave her a chance to prevent problems at their source. And when she killed, it was more often the people responsible for evil, rather than their hapless minions. 

Lyla had saved millions of lives, over the course of her career, if you added up the bombs not detonated, the wars not started, the economies un-tampered with. But she had also seen enough to know that the country she defended did not always promote the ideals she stood for. There were those in ARGUS who saw media manipulation as routine; who held no ethical qualms with assassination; who truly believed that citizens of other countries had less right to life than citizens of the United States. 

She'd wondered about it, when John told her Mark Shaw had chosen to die rather than continue working for Waller. She paused again, when she heard herself tell John that they were only to extract one hostage, that the others weren't "United States citizens." But it didn't come together until she stood in a hospital lab, staring at the explosive charges rigged all around the building, and realized that she wasn't going to make it home this time. Tears welled up as she thought of Sara, losing both parents to this narcissistic powermonger's plot.

_What am I doing?_

_Building fires against the night._  
_Polishing armor before the last fight._  
_Screwing up courage and sticking it tight;_  
_Building fires against the night._  


**April, 2015**

Floyd Lawton had never been what you'd call normal. But he'd been stable, at least, competent. He could interact in society, and not have anyone call the cops on him.

That had changed when he'd joined the military. Only he hadn't noticed, because no one in the military was stable; nothing about it was normal. It was only when he came back that he'd realized he had changed. And changed forever; he couldn't go back. He could never be a father, a husband, a citizen. He'd been arrested; he'd been jailed; he'd been recruited by HIVE. 

He still didn't understand. Didn't know what the thing was, that was broken inside him, that made him unfit for human society. He was a killer, yes, but so was "the Arrow". He was ruthless, yes, but so was Lyla Michaels. He was angry, yes, but so was John Diggle. It was something else. Something that made Floyd Lawton a monster while it made the others heroes. 

When he saw the explosives rigged around the hospital, Floyd realized the same thing Lyla did: there was no way for them all to survive. But unlike Lyla, he saw a way out, for three of them. Three people with tremendous nerve, and skill, could not only make it out, but rescue the hostages... as long as the fourth remained behind, to cover their escape. As long as the fourth could get to a roof, unseen. As long as the fourth was an expert sharpshooter who could be trusted to hit a small, palm-sized detonator with a super-sonic bullet. 

Now, from the roof of a charity hospital in Kasnia, Floyd polished his optics, and waited. 

_Raising fires against the dark._

**January, 2015**

Sometimes, when Thea felt too small, or too weak, or too scared, to make a difference, she thought of Tommy.

Malcolm had taught her to be strong, and brave, but she would never take him as a role model. Moira had taught her to stand strong and play cool even when she had a lousy position; but she'd also taught Thea to feel inadequate and unlovable.

And of course she loved and respected Ollie, and Laurel, and Roy. But sometimes she felt intimidated by them, and didn't feel that she could live up to their reputation. To their reality.

When the Queen's Gambit went down, Thea had lost father, brother, and also -- worst of all -- mother. She wouldn't have made it through, except that her _other_ big brother had stepped in. Tommy, in all his grief and sorrow, had reached out to help Thea, and try to fill in the slots that her family no longer would.

He did all the things that Ollie -- old Ollie, pre-island Ollie -- would have done, if he'd been there: he got her her first fake ID; snuck her into bars. He did the things that Robert would have done, that Moira should have done: he took her to baseball games and Jonas Brothers concerts; he bought her ice cream after she won a Speech and Debate competition. And perhaps most importantly of all, he understood how it felt to lose a parent who still lived in the same house with you.

It was that simple truth that helped Thea in her darkest moments, when she didn't feel Speedy enough, and feared that it was her weakness that would bring failure to the team. It was the knowledge that sometimes, the actions that made a difference, weren't the flashiest, or loudest, or the ones that resulted in bad guys laid out on a concrete floor. Sometimes courage was a 21-year-old boy -- abandoned, neglected, mocked, despised -- reaching out to a 12-year-old girl, to tell her she didn't deserve the abandonment and neglect she was given.

  
_  
Aiming and trying, and making your mark._

**September, 2026**

Michelle Vincent paused, in cleaning out the attic, as she came across a Boba Fett action figure that Rory had long since outgrown.

She'd known, when she married Gabe, that cops' wives don't always get to celebrate their silver anniversary. She'd known there was a chance that she'd signed on to become Gabe Vincent's widow.

But nothing could have truly prepared her to hear the words spoken aloud. To become single mother to a 4-year-old son.

When she'd lost her husband to one of those Mirakuru-crazed terrorists, the world had seemed to collapse beneath her. And one of the things that had helped her hold it together was Roy Harper.

She didn't know why he'd singled her out; he didn't like to talk about it, and she'd never pressed him. The truth was, she was just grateful for the help.

The cash and the groceries were great. But even more important, in those months after the event, had been the help preparing the groceries, or watching Rory while Michelle ran errands. He'd helped her tide over the months before Gabe's pension kicked in; he'd helped her establish a new routine. He'd helped her to believe that, although she'd lost one good thing from her life, that didn't mean she'd never have good things again.

A year later, Roy had been arrested as the Starling City Vigilante, and killed his first night in prison. But he'd left behind at least one less-grieving widow, and a Boba Fett action figure in a 5-year-old's stocking.

Michelle set the action figure aside. If Rory didn't want it, Michelle would keep it as a reminder of the kindness of strangers.

_  
Running down tigers,_

**June, 2029**

Zoe Lawton had no memories of her father. Her parents had separated when she was 3; her father had died in Kasnia when she was 8. She had only some remembered fear, in the pit of her stomach, and the stories her mother had told her.

But she had a legacy from him. On her 18th birthday, she'd received a call from the Union Bank of Switzerland. One short drive and one astonishing meeting later, Zoe knew that she'd never have to work again. 

She spent a few weeks thinking it through. With proper management, she could build her fortune into an economic powerhouse, comparable to the Merlyn or Palmer estates. Or, with very little management, she could still party like Oliver Queen, and never worry about a thing, for the rest of her life. 

She decided to stay in college. She broke up with her boyfriend, who was actually kind of a possessive asshole, and acquired a girlfriend with an off-campus apartment. She got good grades, did some partying, decided she didn't like smoking but did enjoy an occasional pot brownie. 

Zoe would never know what happened to her father. She would never know how he got out of prison, where he'd gotten the money he'd left her, or why he'd ended up leading a terrorist attack in Kasnia. But she knew enough to know that the government had failed him; had broken him and dumped him, refusing to clean up the mess they'd left behind. She researched. She interviewed. She learned that PTSD was under-diagnosed, and over-demonized; that treatment was rarely sufficient; that funding problems kept VA treatments short and wait times long. 

She talked it over with her mother. She talked it over with her partners. She took her political science degree, and her research, and began contacting senators and representatives; lobbyists and reporters. 

The military had failed her father. But he had left her the resources to prevent it failing its future recruits. 

_and hunting for sharks;_

**May, 2014**

Henri Hochburg had joined the military to get an education. Coming from the neighborhood he did, the family he did, it was the only way to escape. 5-year hitch, hope not to die overseas, and then you got a college degree.

He hadn't really joined with any noble intentions like defending his country or standing up for his values; his "values" mostly consisted of "look out for yourself, because no one else is going to."

What changed that was his first commanding officer, Colonel Lyla Michaels.

Michaels was as tough as anyone in the 'hood, and made it clear that she would take no crap from anybody. But she also made it clear that she would do anything -- up to and including laying down her life -- for anyone on her team. Henri had never heard of having someone "watch your 6"; now he had someone watching out for him 24/7.

She taught him tactics; she taught him military jargon; she taught him to read a brief, perform a mission, complete an AAR. But she also taught him to value teamwork, to trust others, and to stand up for what you believe in.

He was offered a position with ARGUS primarily due to Michaels' training; he accepted primarily for the chance to work with her again. The ARGUS command room was safer than a battlefield ... supposedly. But it didn't escape Henri's notice that Agent Michaels was risking a lot -- possibly her life -- every time she stood up to Amanda Waller. Nor did it escape his notice that she never hesitated, if she believed Waller was wrong.

Now he sat at a command console, preparing to launch a drone strike at a civilian target in his own nation. And found himself thinking, "What would Michaels do?"

He glanced aside at Kassidy Bea; Agent Bea had been in the same unit, and they had spoken -- quietly -- about whether they'd have the strength to stand up to criminal orders the way Agent Michaels did. 

"Prepare the drone for firing." Waller's order jerked Henri back to the here-and-now, in time to hear Agent Bea speak up. "The schedule was for 6 o'clock..."

"I _said_... prepare the drone for firing." Agent Bea glanced at him as she turned back to her console. _What would Michaels do?_

Henri was interrupted in his contemplation by Agent Michaels bursting through the door, followed by her husband, and -- _what the hell?_ \-- most of Task Force X, all pointing weapons at Waller. Waller, who had worked her way up through military ranks same as anyone in the room, had two guns out, pointed at Michaels and Diggle, in the blink of an eye. 

In the ensuing stand-off, Henri realized his question had been answered. Like him, Michaels felt this drone strike was wrong. And she was willing to go to extreme measures -- risking career, husband, and life -- to prevent it happening. The question then was, what would _Henri_ do? 

He'd selected the military for the education; he'd selected computer science as a career that had plenty of employment opportunities. He'd been intending to program apps for iPhones, but this didn't even really require an app; just the addition of a single exclamation point: a quick script that turned the "fire" button into a "do not fire" button. 

Now it didn't matter what Waller did; as long as Henri had a finger on this button, the drone wouldn't fire. A simple but effective deadman's switch. 

-

"It's over Amanda. Call off the drone." Henri hadn't moved for more than an hour. His still, frozen posture made sense, considering the standoff; no one would consider the possibility that he had another reason for not moving a muscle. Now he blinked his tired eyes, but kept his finger on the console. 

"It's _over_ , Amanda!" Waller's face showed calculations, then her hands opened in a gesture of surrender. With Task Force X still keeping her in their sights, Waller moved to the command console and tapped out a few commands. 

Henri's screen showed the drone changing course, heading back out over the ocean. He stretched his cramped hand, then set to work deleting all traces of his script from every ARGUS hard drive and backup. 

_  
Raising fires against the dark._

**November, 2015**

Paul had loved Curtis from the first time they met, at a medical technology conference in San Francisco. 

Curtis had been presenting a new material for artificial joints, and the entire presentation had been bumbling, awkward, and adorable. By the end of the 20-minute talk, Paul had a massive crush.

He loved Curtis' brilliance. He loved the way he got lost in problem-solving and started talking to himself. He loved the way he got caught up in discovery and forgot who he was talking to, forgot all protocols of courtesy. He loved the enthusiasm, and the laser-like focus, and the childlike joy. 

"Dorky!" Curtis would wail, despairingly. "Adorkable", Paul would counter, pulling Curtis in close. 

When Curtis got the offer from Palmer Tech, Paul had agreed to move to Star City, instantly. Palmer Technologies was clearly the perfect environment for Curtis, and the researcher position was exactly the kind of place that Curtis would excel. "I can rebuild my practice, love. Anywhere people fail to take care of themselves, a PT can work. Heck," Paul grinned, "All those vigilantes running around, I might be making more money than you!" 

What he'd never imagined was the effect that Ray Palmer would have on Curtis. Not even from talking to him or mentoring him -- although Palmer was a friendly, down-to-earth sort of CEO, and spent as much time in the research labs as in the executive suite. Just from the example. Just from being who he was, unapologetically. 

Because who he was, was Curtis. Brilliant, awkward, enthusiastic, inadvertently rude, focused, joyful. Only Palmer felt no remorse, showed no concern, for his dorkiness. Instead he enhanced it, harnessed it, and used it to build a fortune. 

And Paul could feel, and see, the effect it had on his husband. Curtis had stopped slouching, stopped trying to be smaller. He spoke up, when he saw a better way to do things. He still misspoke, and was awkward, but he didn't let it shut him down: he learned to apologize, and move on, and reassert the truth of what he was trying to say. 

Would he go on to become a billionaire? Paul didn't care. Every day, for every smile, he blessed Ray Palmer for the confidence he'd given Paul's husband. 

_Blazing fires against the dark._

**May 2028**

Pahng Kyung's first view of Starling City was through the holes in a shipping container that was too rusted-out to be legally shipped. He and 97 other refugees -- his parents and little brother among them -- had been snuck aboard after dark past a customs official who had been bribed to step out for a drink. Their placement on the boat should mean that their container would be set directly on the ground at the Starling City port, and left unsupervised overnight. Then they had to sneak out of the port, past guards that -- they were assured -- would be much more lax and easier to fool than the guards in Korea.

They arrived just in time for the earthquake.

Within days of their arrival, the city was in chaos, with no government, no police force, no transportation, no food.

And the hell of it was, it was still better than what they had left.

When the Pahng family joined Blood's mutual benefit society, no one cared that they didn't speak English, or that they had no job skills. And they didn't care that Blood couldn't pay them in money. Through liberal use of Google Translate, he promised them shelter, protection, and an equal share in what food and clothing the collective could obtain. They hauled rubble, foraged through abandoned houses, plowed bluegrass lawns and planted gardens. They stood guard, evaded police patrols, smuggled weapons. They taught native Starling residents how to harvest shellfish, how to prepare octopus. By the time public schools re-opened in the Glades, Kyung and Seong knew English well enough to attend.

Kyung learned English listening to Blood's speeches - in the common room at night; on street corners by day; on television, as his movement gained support. Americans made such a big deal out of "free speech", and Kyung had never understood. But as he watched the collective grow, saw Blood's influence spread, it had started to become clear. It wasn't that Blood spoke ill of those in power -- although he did, occasionally, say things that would have gotten him lynched in the Pahng's home town.

It was the way he inspired people. The way he gave people hope, and strength, the way his words could persuade them to work together, to think of themselves not as individuals but as members of a tribe, a clan, a family.

Kyung was accustomed to thinking of himself as weak and helpless, as a drop of water in the ocean; life in the Glades didn't change that. Sebastian Blood died less than a year later, but not before he'd taught Kyung to think of himself as a drop of water in a tsunami. Weak and helpless alone, certainly. But joined with others, Kyung, like anyone, had the potential to be one of the most powerful forces in human history. This was speech that was dangerous to those in authority. Speech that reminded the low people of the power they already had, and could use at any time. 

Blood gave him the inspiration; his parents gave him a tireless work ethic. He researched government, he studied history, he learned sociology. He joined the Speech  & Debate Society, and placed highly in the state tournament. He studied psychology; he studied rhetoric; he studied philosophical argumentation theory. At age 19, he had become the youngest member of the Star City Counsel. 

He hadn't yet had the seniority to lead committees; he had only his single vote with which to block bills. But he had passion, and rhetoric, and a tireless work ethic, and a perspective few members of the city counsel had encountered before. He had the ability to communicate what his constituency needed, and why they needed it. He had a reputation for rational insight. His influence was small, but it was growing. 

Now, at 31, he was beginning to see real change. The Starling City Subway had been reopened, allowing residents of the Glades, for the first time in 25 years, to take jobs downtown even if they didn't own a car. Star City had been selected for a trial program that aimed to educate and rehabilitate juvenile offenders; one of the first graduates would be transferring from juvie to MIT this fall. 

But more importantly than that, Kyung Pahng wasn't doing this alone anymore. Over more than a decade, a substantial portion of the city counsel had joined his cause. Employers, delighted at the improvement in their workforce selection, had started to praise Kyung's educational measures. Police, now that it wasn't an active war zone, were starting to patrol the Glades with an eye towards protecting its residents, rather than protecting the city from them. Onepercenters were starting to make the connection between systemic disenfranchisement and their inability to walk the streets at night; Claudia Somers had started a foundation to re-train unemployed foundry and construction workers to hold jobs as programmers and system administrators. 

Like all tsunamis, the effect was barely noticeable where it started. But when it reached harbor, the effect would be inescapable. 


End file.
